***This is not specifically prompted. I just knocked it out.***
Pierce lifts the gun from the table and the Asset doesn’t react. Regrets, self-recrimination, are not for weapons. He’s not supposed to have that much sense of self. His handlers are displeased enough as it is.
The gun is fired. The woman falls.
It’s the Asset’s fault. His fault Pierce had to dirty his expensive floor. The Asset’s fault Renata had to die. He should have been more careful. He should have kept his mask on. He should have stayed by the wall, in deeper shadow. He should have listened for her returning footsteps. She wasn’t authorized to see the Asset’s face.
He wonders if anyone will miss her. He will, if he ever has cause again to be reminded of her. How many times did kind, careful, efficient Renata help him clean up after one of Pierce’s celebrations? He doesn’t remember more than echoes but the echoes themselves tell him enough. I want that floor pristine when I get back, his handler had said and the Asset, barely capable of voluntary movement, had despaired.
Pierce clicks his tongue and sighs as he sets the gun on the table again.
The Asset keeps his stare impassive. Weapons don’t have regrets. Renata had been serving too, though in a different capacity, he thinks. She might have had regrets. He doubts Pierce does. His handler only plays at being sentimental.
“What a waste,” says Pierce, scrutinizing the Asset’s unchanged expression. “But this is no time to become sloppy. I want that floor pristine.”
Re: Any trash drabble
***This is not specifically prompted. I just knocked it out.***
Pierce lifts the gun from the table and the Asset doesn’t react. Regrets, self-recrimination, are not for weapons. He’s not supposed to have that much sense of self. His handlers are displeased enough as it is.
The gun is fired. The woman falls.
It’s the Asset’s fault. His fault Pierce had to dirty his expensive floor. The Asset’s fault Renata had to die. He should have been more careful. He should have kept his mask on. He should have stayed by the wall, in deeper shadow. He should have listened for her returning footsteps. She wasn’t authorized to see the Asset’s face.
He wonders if anyone will miss her. He will, if he ever has cause again to be reminded of her. How many times did kind, careful, efficient Renata help him clean up after one of Pierce’s celebrations? He doesn’t remember more than echoes but the echoes themselves tell him enough. I want that floor pristine when I get back, his handler had said and the Asset, barely capable of voluntary movement, had despaired.
Pierce clicks his tongue and sighs as he sets the gun on the table again.
The Asset keeps his stare impassive. Weapons don’t have regrets. Renata had been serving too, though in a different capacity, he thinks. She might have had regrets. He doubts Pierce does. His handler only plays at being sentimental.
“What a waste,” says Pierce, scrutinizing the Asset’s unchanged expression. “But this is no time to become sloppy. I want that floor pristine.”